


I Don't Know If I Could (ever go without)

by dls



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidental Edgeplay, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Edgeplay, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dls/pseuds/dls
Summary: Jaskier is as chatty as ever, whining for breaks on their travels and demanding details from Geralt’s hunts. His many requests a familiarity that gives Geralt hope that perhaps this fragile and fluttery thing between them was still intact. Until he realizes that Jaskier doesn’t seem to care whether his wants are met or denied, shrugging off both with ease as if what he asks of Geralt is of no import. As if none of what Geralt offers is what he needs, what he wants.Or: The accidental edging fic that developed feelings
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 79
Kudos: 953
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	I Don't Know If I Could (ever go without)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by [Arboreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arboreal/pseuds/Arboreal) & [darkmagess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess).
> 
> References/Quotes   
>  Title from "Watermelon Sugar" by Harry Styles.

Jaskier can’t feel his fingers. Can’t feel his toes. Can’t feel the sheets beneath his back or the strain in his thighs. Can’t feel anything except for the throbbing ache of his cock, denied release for far too long, and the delicious burn of his stretched rim where Geralt is fucking into him with slow and relentless strokes.

“Come on!” He whines, twisting his whole body like he’s trying to roll over, to fall off of the cliff that Geralt has kept him at the edge of for what feels like hours. Every time Jaskier is close, so damnably and blessedly close, Geralt drags him back by stopping and, on two occasions, gripping the base of Jaskier’s cock with calloused fingers.

It was thrilling, at first, drawing out the pleasure and extending Jaskier’s woefully limited human stamina, but now it borders on cruel.

Not that cruelty is new in their two decades together. It did begin with a punch to the gut outside of Posada and, for three hours, Jaskier thought it had ended with harsh words on King Niedamir's mountains. Geralt had caught up to him at the base of the mountain, grunted for him to leave his belongings in Roach’s saddlebags, and said they’d need to find a spot to make camp before nightfall. 

They’ve been traveling, again, ever since. As if nothing’s changed, except for, well, the obvious happening right now. 

The sex was new but not an unexpected development. Both were reeling from their respective heartbreaks and in need of carnal comforts, Geralt looking to forget the sorceress who’s only his because of a wish and Jaskier wanting something other than pain to remember his Witcher by. 

And what glorious memories he has of Geralt’s arms flexing as he holds Jaskier up while they rut against a tree, Geralt’s legs tensing under Jaskier’s hands as he does his best to swallow the Witcher’s cock down to the root in a dark alleyway, Geralt’s tongue licking into him and curling just so to make Jaskier’s voice break. 

Fucking rude, that. His voice is his livelihood. 

“You’re a shit, Witcher. A godsdamn tease and-” Jaskier’s breath hitches when Geralt pulls out all the way, the flared head of his cock barely resting against Jaskier’s hole, empty and squeezing around nothing.

“Ask me.” Golden eyes flash with something Jaskier can’t decipher. “Ask me to give you what you want.”

Jaskier clenches down and regrets the decision immediately as it does little to sate the hunger inside. If anything, he’s starving for more. “What?” 

Geralt’s grin is all teeth, feral. “Ask me to make you spill.” He shifts forward, the drooling tip of his cock nudging up against Jaskier’s balls, heavy and drawn taut. 

Moaning at the sensation, Jaskier tries to process what Geralt said.

Ask. He wants Jaskier to ask. 

Well, Jaskier’s been with enough partners to know what that really means. 

Geralt wants him to _beg_. 

“No.” Jaskier hisses out between his teeth.

Years ago, he pleaded his way into Geralt’s company, trampling over his own dignity in his haste to chase after the Witcher. During those three hours he descended the mountain alone, he found bits and pieces of it along the way and vowed to never devalue himself in such a way again. 

Of course, his grand plan was derailed when Geralt appeared and he forgave the bastard without receiving an apology for or an acknowledgment of what happened. But he was caught by surprise, so he thinks some allowances can be made for that one slip-up. He’s been more careful since, even as they tumble into bed together. 

_Especially_ as they tumble into bed together. 

So, no. He won’t beg. 

Not when it will open the floodgates to begging for all sorts of things Jaskier wants from Geralt, things he will never receive, things a violet-eyed sorceress found wanting.

Not when Geralt barely tolerates his songs and his presence and his friendship, wants only the pleasure Jaskier’s body gives and none of his affections. 

Not when his pride is the last armor he has, cracked and ill-suited as it may be. 

“Then you’ll have to wait.” Geralt makes to move away, an empty threat judging by the steady stream of wetness he’s smearing over Jaskier’s balls. His grin is a smug and unfairly gorgeous thing. 

Jaskier wants to punch him, probably would have too if both his wrists weren’t caught in Geralt’s hand and pinned above his head. “I don’t need you to come.” Sure, climaxing from his own touch won’t be as good as coming on Geralt’s cock but he thinks the satisfaction of proving his point will make up the difference just fine. He tugs against Geralt’s grip, it tightens as golden eyes narrow. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Geralt.” 

For a moment, they simply stare at each other. A standstill for a fight Geralt started and Jaskier is determined to win. The need to come suddenly doesn’t seem so urgent anymore; nothing kills his mood like being slapped in the face with his hopeless and unrequited love.

Geralt leans in, his stubble grazing over the sensitive spot at the curve of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder as he growls into Jaskier’s ear. “You need me.” 

“I don’t-” He trails off in a groan when Geralt sinks into him, long and hard, arching involuntarily at the sudden fullness. 

“You need me.” Geralt licks a hot trail along his jaw, nipping at his chin, before capturing his lips in a kiss. He fucks into Jaskier’s mouth with deep strokes of his tongue that mirror the smooth thrusts of his hips. “You do.” He pants. “You need me.” 

“Thought- Thought the last thing you want- Oh, fuck.” Jaskier’s eyes slam shut when Geralt ruts into him with a grinding motion. He can feel his orgasm building again. It’s a testament of his stubbornness that he’s able to force the rest of his words out. “Is someone, ah, ah, needing you.”

“Not if it’s you.” Geralt shifts back a tiny bit, the new leverage allowing him to fuck _up_ instead of merely forward. 

The new angle makes Jaskier shudder, his mind going blissfully blank as his entire world narrows down where they are joined. The way Geralt’s cock pounds into him, smooth and fast. 

“Want you to need me.” Geralt’s voice is rough, rougher than his usual rasp. “Ask me.”

Jaskier can barely think, utterly overwhelmed, but a part of him knows he can’t, he won’t. Not if he wants to survive this. So he bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head, a wail caught in his throat. He feels more than hear Geralt’s sigh, a gust of air cool over his hot skin. 

“I see.” 

See what? He wants to ask but then there is a calloused thumb swiping insistently across the weeping slit of his cock, the roughness and the pressure enough to send Jaskier flying. His cock spitting out ropes of white, a streak to match every snap of Geralt’s hips. He melts into the mattress as his muscles turn to liquid with the sudden release, which makes the tension radiating off of Geralt’s frame and the distinct _lack_ of messy slickness inside him all the more noticeable. “You didn’t finish?” 

“No.” Geralt grits out. 

“Why not?” Fighting through the drowsiness of his afterglow, he blinks up at Geralt, still poised above him. 

“Because I went about this wrong.” 

Jaskier is wide awake now. _Wrong_. Geralt thinks this is wrong. He flinches and keens when his tender hole spasms around Geralt’s length. 

Geralt shushes him with a gentleness that makes Jaskier, still raw and reeling, want to weep. “I did, not you.” A trickle of sweat runs down from his hairline, the only hint that he isn’t as composed as he appears. “I wanted you to ask me.” 

Fuck, not this again. “I’m not going to beg.” He declares, as proudly as a man with come sticking to his belly and speared on a cock can manage. 

“Beg? I didn’t say-” 

“I knew what you meant.” 

“But that’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to beg.” Confusion rumples Geralt’s features. 

Jaskier is reaching to smooth his furrowed brows before he realizes what he’s doing. Once upon a time, he knew Geralt’s words as well as his own. Now it’s as though they’re speaking two different languages. “What did you mean then? What do you want?” 

“You.” 

“You have me. Quite literally.” Jaskier rocks and gasps when Geralt’s cock jumps. Gods, he can feel the thick vein on the underside pulsing against his sensitive rim. So he does it again, and again, and again.

Geralt groans, low and guttural. “I- I need to say- Fuck, will you stop that?” 

“Fine.” Having his partners asking him to _stop_ doing that isn’t something that’s ever happened to Jaskier. But of course Geralt is the exception. 

“I’m, I’m sorry.” 

Well, that’s another first, someone apologizing to him while fucking him. A laugh bubbles up in his throat, slightly hysterical, and he has to bite it back. His body trembles with the effort.

Geralt’s abdomen flexes with his effort to hold himself still. “I shouldn’t have assumed that, that things were fine. After the mountain.” 

Jaskier is so shocked that he goes lax, his body opening up and drawing Geralt in further. 

They swear in unison. 

“Just, give me a moment.” Geralt pants, desperation creeping into his voice. 

Jaskier’s cock twitches with interest; he wills it to behave. 

“I want you...to need me. Because I need you.” Geralt’s pupils are blown wide, only a thin line of gold remains at their edges. Like black suns. 

Jaskier’s been blessed enough to witness this celestial marvel once and it brought him to his knees. Not by fear, by awe. Witnessing something so grand and wild beyond his greatest imagination. He feels similarly now, seeing the vulnerability and truth coloring Geralt’s expression with the faintest of a blush, from his cheeks to the tip of his ears. “You do?” 

“Yes.” 

“How long?” 

“Long enough.”

“ _Geralt_.” 

“Didn’t know until you left. Until I made you leave.” He winces. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’ve a funny way of apologizing. Withholding pleasure isn’t exactly what I’d call a contrite act.” 

“I just- I didn’t mean- You don’t ask me for things anymore.” 

“I asked you just today to stay at an inn.” Jaskier points out. 

“You did but you didn’t, hm.” Geralt quiets, thinking. “You ask me for things you won’t care if denied.”

 _Oh._ That’s certainly true. He would have gotten a room for himself if Geralt wanted to press forward and make camp in the woods. Part of his efforts to maintain some emotional distance. “Huh.” 

“You care about pleasure.” Geralt mumbles. “And I thought, if I just make it so you’d ask. But you don’t need me for that either. I’ve fucked everything up.” 

Jaskier considers this bizarrely roundabout yet straightforward logic. It’s so very Geralt that he can’t help but feel endeared. “You haven’t.” 

“No?” 

“Well, maybe a little. More than a little.” Jaskier amends. “But nothing beyond repair.”

“Hm.”

Geralt sounds pleased and, this time, Jaskier is fairly certain he’s correct in his interpretation. Though it’s difficult to think clearly with Geralt, miraculously still hard, buried inside him. “We need to talk more about this, obviously, but perhaps not, er, like _this_.” He clenches down around the thick length.

“Agreed.” A groan rips out of Geralt’s throat, his expression downright stricken as he eases all the way out and, much to Jaskier’s confusion and disappointment, does not slide back in. 

“Wait, what are you doing?” 

“You said we need to talk.” 

“I meant after!” Jaskier huffs. 

“I don’t deserve-” 

“I say you do. In fact, I’m _asking_ you to _make me_ come again.” He tries to infuse as much meaning as he can into his words. “Don’t _deny_ me, Witcher.” 

Understanding dawns in those golden eyes and Geralt slams back in with a growl. The drag of that gorgeous cock against his sore rim sets Jaskier’s nerves alight, sharper and brighter than before. He’s burning up, heat pooling in his gut and coiling at the base of his spine, glowing white-hot as Geralt continues to drive into him with the same unerring focus he has on a hunt. 

Jaskier starts rocking again, in time with Geralt’s thrusts, adding a swivel of his hips this time to rub his prostate against that flared tip of Geralt’s cock. His own swells to stiffness in response and leaks on his belly. 

It’s good, it’s so fucking good that Jaskier doesn’t notice Geralt letting go of his wrists, doesn’t notice Geralt coating his fingers with Jaskier’s release, doesn’t notice Geralt reaching down between them until a hot, wet hand is gripped around his cock. The squelch of it is absolutely obscene and hits him like a punch to the gut. 

A string of _please_ and _fuck me_ and _my Witcher_ tumble from his lips, tripping over and running into each other in his haste that they’re more melody than words. Complemented nicely by Geralt’s pants and groans, culminating in a primal roar as he shudders to his climax and fills Jaskier up with his seed. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

Impossibly, Geralt keeps the same relentless pace, the slick feel and filthy sound of him fucking his own come deeper is enough to send Jaskier spiraling into his second orgasm, slack-mouthed and shaking, spilling over Geralt’s fingers. 

They lay tangled together, spent and sweaty and smelling of sex. 

“We should clean up.” Jaskier notes absently, tracing the jagged scar from a werewolf bite on Geralt’s shoulder blade. His nose wrinkles as he feels the beginning trickle leaking out of him. 

“We should.” Geralt hums. 

Neither of them move, though, content to bask in the afterglow. 

Something did break on King Niedamir's mountains but it can be fixed. Can be remade into something new. Something better. 

**Author's Note:**

> [dls-ao3.tumblr.com](https://dls-ao3.tumblr.com/)


End file.
